


And Baby Makes Three

by Fabrisse



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabrisse/pseuds/Fabrisse
Summary: Bertie is summoned by his Aunt Dahlia.





	And Baby Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



Jeeves entered the room on little cat feet, as the poet Sandburg -- American chappie -- might say, and presented the old silver salver. There was a telegram. 

I looked at him in wild surmise -- another one, not Sandburg -- and said, “Little strikes more dread, right, Jeeves.”

“Fear of the unknown is well documented, sir.” 

“As is fear of the known. The people I know who send telegrams rather than letters or just bashing on by are limited to Aunts and Glossops.”

“I believe Mister Potter-Pirbright once requested bail in Monte Carlo via telegram, but generally, your reasoning is sound.”

“Too right, Jeeves. And Catsmeat’s little adventure was understandable. Those French policemen hang onto their hats.”

“Monegasque, sir.”

“Jeeves?”

“Monte Carlo is in Monaco, not France as is often thought.”

“Then aren’t they Monacan? After all, those people in the robes from Morocco are Moroccan.”

A small silence greeted my statement. Jeeves was impressed. “While sensible, may I remind you, sir, that while the Monegasque are not French, they do share that language. It is a language designed to confound rather than illuminate.”

I saw his point. I also saw the telegram again and removed it from the salver. “Bull by the horns, as they say.” 

The missive was short. “You are needed. Aunt Dahlia.”

“I have already booked our train, sir. It leaves at two p.m. We should arrive in sufficient time for tea, but even if delayed certainly in time for dinner.”

“Yes, well, pack my bags then. Let’s hope dinner will be edible.”

“If I may, sir, when the problem has lain with Anatole, Mrs. Travers has seen fit to include a statement to that effect in the telegram proper. The fact that she omitted such a statement and kept under the minimum number of words would indicate that the need is less serious if not less real than previous crises.”

“A bright spot then. Beware of Aunts who need things, I say.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and add my new poetry books to one of the suitcases.”

“Yes, sir,” this time the words held a distinct frost.

“Jeeves?”

“Your felicity with poetry has long been noted.”

“Ever since being asked to recite _The Charge of the Light Brigade_ as a wee lad not yet ready for Eton.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I felt the distinct presence of a ‘but’ at the end of your previous sentence, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And? Your ‘but’ is?”

“Surely, sir, the Americans, especially the recent Americans are not quite up to the caliber of Tennyson and Wordsworth.”

“And yet Gussie Fink-Nottle has suggested the poets Sandburg, Frost, and Eliot as essential to a gentleman’s education.”

Jeeves was silent, doubtless with the irrefutability of the argument. “Of course, sir.”

***  
It was a bit of a shock running into Madeline Bassett on the terrace sitting in a lounge chair -- or the Countess Sidcup, I should say. Madeline, not the lounge chair. 

“Oh, Bertie, how kind of you to come in my hour of need. Your aunt, Mrs. Travers, was certain you’d be here quickly, and now here you are.”

“So good to see you,” said I.

Aunt Dahlia hoved to the rescue, “There you are Bertie. I see you saw who Angela brought home.”

“Yes.”

Aunt Dahlia raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “Madeline, dear, surely it would be better to have a brief rest before dinner. I believe the terrace is already getting a bit of a chill.”

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Travers. I, er ...” 

She waved a hand in my direction and I gave her a sharp tug to extricate her. “Bally difficult, lounge chairs, too far from the ground and too comfortable by half.”

“You’re so sweet, Bertie. It broke my heart to break yours, but Roderick speaks to my soul.”

“That’s a dashed good thing then.”

Madeline’s eyes threatened to brim over as she departed. “You are far too good, Bertie Wooster.”

“That’s funny,” Aunt Dahlia said, “she said she knew you.”

“Yes, I count it fortunate that I don’t know her better. Only a few engagements. Is it just me or does she seem a bit rounder?”

Aunt Dahlia shook her head. “Of course, she’s rounder. She’s due in two months.”

“Due for what?”

“To become a mother. It’s most rewarding.” Aunt Dahlia didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Hold a mo’... are you saying there will soon be a tiny Roderick Spode running around in nappies?”

“They’ve been married over a year. It’s hardly a surprise.”

“But a young Spode? Is it wise?”

“Perhaps it will be a golden haired girl like Madeline.”

After a brief image of Spode as a girl, complete with mustache, I contemplated the delicacy of a small Madeline and wondered if somewhere a fairy was blowing its nose.

“Yes.”

“She’s why I needed you.”

I’m certain the look of wild surmise crossed my face again as I longed to be on a peak in Darien -- or in the Lake Country for that matter as long as it was far from Aunt Dahlia.

“The problem is twofold,” she continued, obviously not having seen my momentary lapse. “The first is that the countess is a vegetarian. Anatole is not pleased. He has promised one week of vegetarian food, but that will end on Saturday. Today is Wednesday. You see the problem.”

“No.”

Aunt Dahlia said, “Tell Jeeves what I just said, he’ll explain it. The other problem is that Angela expects me to organize a baby shower for her friend Madeline, but we don’t run in the same sets. Perhaps you can convince her that organizing something at the Palm Court in London -- or anywhere other than here -- might not be for the best.”

“That I can do. Angela’s always been my favorite cousin. She never once threw her blocks at me.”

“She always was better behaved than Bonzo or the abominable Thos.” She glanced at the front hall clock. “There’s an hour until cocktails. Why don’t you go talk to Jeeves and see if he has any suggestions on how to get this sorted.”

“Topping, Aunt Dahlia.” I toddled up the stairs looking forward to a warm bath, a book of poetry, and laying the burden on Jeeves’ shoulders.

***  
The sunlight in the bath prompted me to ignore the poet Eliot in favor of a medley of _Fascinatin’ Rhythm_ and _I Got Rhythm,_ music to stir the thoughts.

Jeeves awaited with the stiff front and diamond point for dinner. 

“Anatole has been limited to vegetables.”

“So I was informed, sir.”

“Have you thought about the problem of the Miss Bassett?”

“Were she still Miss Bassett, the countess really would have a problem.”

“An excellent point, Jeeves. She is _enceinte_. Any thoughts as to why Angela brought her here?”

“The air in Sidcup is disagreeable. It seems the former Miss Bassett has developed lungs.”

“Ah, the fresh air of the country has been recommended.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“I say, Jeeves, this isn’t the only pile of country. Surely, there’s more, what’s the word I want?”

“Salutary, sir?”

“That’s it, salutary settings for her lungs.”

“It is likely, sir, but few of them are within an hour of London for ease of delivery.”

“A problem, what.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and on the other front, rattle or stirrup cup for the blessed event?”

“If I may suggest, studies from Vienna and Rome suggest that mobiles to be hung over the crib may stimulate the intellect of the child.”

“And you think brains should be encouraged?”

“In the Sidcup residence, someone should have what I have heard you, sir, call ‘the brains in the family.’”

“Which is unlikely to be either Madeline or Spode.”

“Sir.”

“Where would one purchase such a thing?”

“You could allow me to make a selection, sir.”

“No, Jeeves. I appreciate the offer, but I feel it my duty. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll provide some illustrations from Doctors Montessori and Freud as guidance.” Jeeves snapped the bachelor button to the correct length and slipped it into my button hole. “If I may, sir, perhaps speaking to MIss Travers about taking a cottage near Stratford would be a way to get Countess Sidcup away from your Aunt’s.”

“Soppy women are impressed by the swan of Avon. Topping suggestion, Jeeves.”

***  
After sipping the light fantastic -- a new cocktail dreamed up by Bonzo -- we decamped to the table, usually the high altar of Anatole’s genius. With his genius reduced to buttering parsnips, I feared the worst. Instead, a faint hunting horn sounded in the distance as the sun rose on a perfect day, and that was just the leek soup.

As the evening wound down with a post-prandial snifter, Aunt Dahlia joined me by the fire. 

“Did you lay the problem before Jeeves?”

“He suggested that Angela might be amenable to taking a cottage somewhere not too far from London, but still distant enough for lungs.”

Aunt Dahlia shook her head. “He’s slipping. Already tried that. Had a perfect little place in Ely, but something about fogs…”

“Jeeves thought Stratford?”

“Perhaps.” She frowned into the fire with all the despair of a woman who might lose the best chef in Britain to food fit for rabbits. She sighed. “At least we have until Saturday.”

***  
After pairing up with Angela against Aunt Dahlia and Madeline at a slow game of badminton and leaving the ladies to croquet, I found Bonzo for a set or two of tennis before once again picking up the words of the poet Eliot. 

“Coffee spoons, Jeeves? Do we have any of those?”

“No, sir, only teaspoons, as is correct.”

Trust Jeeves to know the right thing. If he doesn’t know it, it can’t be correct. “And why do these women come and go talking of Michelangelo? Surely there are more interesting things to talk about. I mean, doesn’t he know about the Grand National?”

“Apparently Mister Eliot’s education is lacking. After all, he is American.”

“Any new ideas Jeeves, on the Madeline thingy? If she’s not got rid of by tomorrow, Aunt Dahlia loses Anatole. I confess, I’ve contemplated kidnapping.”

“A poor strategy, I fear, sir.”

“A desperate one, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir. Perhaps speaking with the countess directly would be prudent.”

“When I attempted a little light badminton banter, I was asked my opinion on names.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed, Jeeves. I missed the shuttlecock when she broached the name Oberon if it were a boy.”

Jeeves nodded sagely. “The solution may appear, sir,” he said, giving the dinner jacket one last brush. 

The gong sounded.

“It must. The prospect of losing Anatole is too dire to contemplate.” I trod out heavily to join the household for cocktails.

***  
Breakfast was rather improved by slipping the footman a ten shilling note to get a couple of rashers of bacon to add to the morning eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes. Even the specialty toast required by Uncle Tom was improved.

Sadly, contemplating the poet Eliot again on a full stomach was the last peaceful moment of the day.

“Wooster, you fatuous drone.” The less than dulcet tones of Roderick Spode careened around the room before finding me in my wingback by the window.

“Lord Spodecup,” I said before realizing it sounded wrong. “Spode. What are you doing here?”

“I am here because a rumor was about that you were trying to steal Madeline from me. It was the act of a blackguard when we were merely engaged. To attempt to seduce a married woman…”

I opened my mouth to speak, but, while my brain isn’t up to the level of the next chap’s, especially if that chap is Jeeves, I recognized that any words I spoke could be used in the dock against me. I thought my words through carefully and began, “My Aunt Dahlia invited…”

“No doubt having informed you of Madeline’s presence.”

“Not at …”

Aunt Dahlia entered. “Ah. Lord Sidcup. I thought I’d heard you. How are you…”

“I’ve come to take Madeline away.”

“Angela will be so sorry to hear that.” Aunt Dahlia’s attempt to look saddened by the news was less than successful.

“Oh, Rory, my love.” At Madeline’s entrance, I looked around for a Rory and then realized she was speaking to Spode.

“I’ve come to take you away my darling. I have bought a cottage in Derbyshire for us and the little one and his nanny.”

“Can Angela come with us until our wee babe is among us?”

I met Aunt Dahlia’s eyes as she said, “I can spare her. I know she won’t rest easily until she knows you’re safely through the worst of it.”

“Of course, my sweet, sweet Maddie.”

Aunt Dahlia bustled off to get her daughter packed. After all, it’s less fraught to temporarily lose a daughter than to permanently lose an artist of the caliber of Anatole.

I sidled toward the other door and was stopped by a bellow of “You, Wooster, scurrying off like a rat.”

“I say, Spode, hardly the thing to compare a man to a rodent.”

“A rat after my wife,” Spode said with greater firmness. 

“Nonsense, Rory. Bertie didn’t even partner me at badminton and he stayed entirely away from the croquet. He has acted the _preux chevalier._ ”

Spode looked soppily at Madeline while continuing to grind his teeth in my general direction. “Go away, Wooster.”

The pleasure was all mine.

***  
While Tennyson might approach the appropriate heights to describe the veal consomme printanier, it would take a Milton to elaborate on the perfection of Anatole’s butterflied leg of lamb with sorrel sauce. He attained new mastery now that he was freed from the tyranny of vegetables.

“I have come to the conclusion, Jeeves, that the American poets lack a full understanding of language. Could an Eliot describe Rillettes a la Anatole? A Frost illuminate the perfection of his sole in green sauce? Sandburg could, perhaps, tackle his summer pudding, but that is small potatoes.”

“Does this mean you are abandoning Mister Fink-Nottle’s suggested list of poets, sir?”

“It does indeed, Jeeves. No more women shall come and go talking of Michelangelo. If they try it, we shall have words.”

“Very good, sir. And Lord and Lady Sidcup?”

“Aunt Dahlia received a telegram from Angela saying they are firmly ensconced near Hawkshead and that the air from Lake Windermere has already performed wonders for Madeline Bassett’s lungs. I also suggested a name should the sprog be a girl which pleased her.”

“Excellent, sir.”

***  
Three months later another telegram arrived from cousin Angela informing us that Madeline had decided to have twins. I popped off to the toy shop to buy a second mobile for the christening. The new one would have a more masculine slant for young Bertram. The previous one would be perfect for Eulalie.


End file.
